


printemps du lune

by gloxinie



Category: Monsta X (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, M/M, being gay and fashionable, gays having a good time in paris
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 19:43:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15177950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloxinie/pseuds/gloxinie
Summary: So far, Hyungwon muses as he’s waving his phone over an artfully displayed cashmere sweater, wondering if it’d be worth trying on in the back for a selfie, this has been one of the most ordinary days he’s had in a long time.Of course, that’s when he arrives.





	printemps du lune

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xelin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xelin/gifts).



> HAPPY BIRTHDAY NINA UWUWUWUWUWUWUWUWUWUWUWUWU !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
> this is for one of my fav people @xelin whom i love very much hi hello  
> this is also a little bit for me because i've been super whipped for mx lately whoops  
> anyway enjoy 5k of absolutely no angst because sometimes things should just be happy and nice for a change
> 
> disclaimer: i have been in paris once, i have no idea what the universities look like and all my knowledge on fashion comes exclusively from project runway. if you're a french university fashion designer reading this i'm sorry

Hyungwon stretches.

 

He’d never say he’s glad to be at work, because ten out of ten times he’d be gladder to be in his bed snoozing the day away, but it is good to be in here for a chance. The summer sun shines in, but the warmth is sucked up by the thick glass panes and the sturdy stone walls. It’s nice. Quiet, cold. Perfect to spend the day on his phone and get paid for looking at Twitter memes.

 

Maybe he should update his Instagram. Coming back to a veritable mess of notifications is tiresome though, if sort of charming and reaffirming.

 

Around 10am he gets the expected visit from Mrs. Beauchamp, here to pick up the pair of gloves she’d ordered for her brother. Hyungwon takes one look at her fitted white dress and crystal-encrusted earrings glinting under freshly permed hair and charges her double what he’d ask from a middle class customer. She takes it, as is usual, and leaves with the items wrapped carefully in white wax paper and a featureless white bag. Outside he sees a group of teenagers pass by, weighed down by varieties of bags, all big and bulky and with brand names scrawled over them. None of them so much as looks over. Again, as usual.

So far, Hyungwon muses as he’s waving his phone over an artfully displayed cashmere sweater, wondering if it’d be worth trying on in the back for a selfie, this has been one of the most ordinary days he’s had in a long time.

 

Of course, that’s when  _ he  _ arrives.

_ He _ , by all means, looks like a tourist, the wide-eyed look of someone new to the city etched in every nook and cranny of his face. Also, the fanny pack. God. He’d probably almost be acceptably dressed if only he’d just burn that thing and maybe get his shirt a few shades darker.

As it stands, though, he is entirely out of place, and it seems like he’s feeling that too. Hyungwon makes a point of glancing about the small space of the boutique, the empty dim space with a counter, one shelf and a rack upon which clothes hang. There’s a singular mannequin in the window, sporting an outfit that is most likely entirely out of this visitor’s price range. Hyungwon does not know why he’s in here. It’s unlikely that something’s caught his eye enough to justify it.

 

“Good day,” he drawls instead of questioning him. “What can we do for you today?”

The man furrows his brows at the ‘we’ as he glances around furtively, unsurely, like he’s not quite sure he understood right. Hyungwon just shrugs. It’s what he’s been told to say, and it works.

“I, uh,” the visitor (not quite a customer yet) stammers, clumsily feeling his way around a language that doesn’t quite fit him, vowels too flat and syllables too clumsy and mashed together. “I’m looking for… excuse me. Sorry. One…” And he trails off, fumbling his fanny pack open to produce a folded map of the city and what appears to be a worn and dog-eared dictionary, the spine of it almost falling apart from repeated use. It reads “1000 useful French phrases and expressions” in blocky Korean across the front, and Hyungwon decides to spare the man the trouble.

“You’re Korean?” he asks, quietly, in stiff Korean. (He’s a little insecure - this is his native tongue, the one people say sticks with you all your life, but he’s all rusty and unpracticed and probably has an awfully thick accent. He’s lucky he didn’t accidentally blank on a simple word just then. The visitor, however, looks relieved and not at all judgy, so he supposes it’s alright for today.)

“Yes. Ah. I’m Wonho and I think I’m lost?” Wonho’s voice is nicer to listen to now that he’s back in his comfort zone. Even his frankly impressive shoulders have relaxed a margin. “See, I’m an exchange student, I’m trying to get to the dorm buildings, but…”

Hyungwon takes a look at Wonho’s cardigan and horn-rimmed glasses, kind of nerdy in a way that works better than it should on such a broad frame, and hums. “PSL?”

“Sorry?”

“Your university. PSL? Also I’m Hyungwon. Hi.”

“Ah, no, actually. I’m here for the Paris College of Arts?”

Inadvertently, one of Hyungwon’s eyebrows rises up. Art? He wouldn’t have pegged the guy for an artist, really. You meet new kinds everyday.

“Give me your map,” he says simply, producing a red felt pen from under the sturdy stone counter, the type you’d use to mark your patterns on fabric before cutting them out, and draws Wonho a squiggle of red over the streets of his map. Only halfway through does he realise that this might be considered rude, or destruction of property, but at that point it’s a little too late to back out. Wonho, in his defense, doesn’t seem too scandalised.

“Here. The campuses are all spread out, the dorms are all about a fifteen minute walk from here. First day in the city?”

“Third… I’m just not used to all this yet.”

“And nobody’s ripped that fanny pack out of your hands yet? That’s a capital offense here, you know.”

Wonho blinks at him. Hyungwon tisks. “Capital of fashion, get with it. Speaking of which, did you just come in to ask for directions or would you like to purchase something?” He already knows the answer to that, but it doesn’t hurt to ask anyway. If only so he doesn’t have to lie to his boss about it.

Wonho grins sheepishly (his face squishes up in this warm way that wouldn’t look good on Hyungwon himself, but works distractingly well on him) and looks around. “Just browsing?”

The culture shock almost makes Hyungwon laugh. As it stands, he barely manages to suppress a chuckle.

“Sure, suit yourself.”

Wonho leaves without buying anything. Even though Hyungwon practically wasted his energy on the guy without even making a sale, he finds he doesn’t mind so much. After all, nobody else comes into the store all day.

 

It’s about a month until Hyungwon sees the guy again, so he pretty much forgets all about him. There’s no trace of him on campus - whatever he studies, if he does study in the first place, it’s not fashion.

(The fanny pack told him as much.)

Hyungwon goes about his time, reveals his ankle to his Instagram followers as a three months late April Fools prank (he’d promised them abs but he loves sleep and strawberry pocky too much to ever have any) and busies himself with his designs. Technically he’d passed his exams for the semester, but the year-end fashion design department runway depends on him, quite frankly, they would collapse immediately should he pull his designs out.

He’s idling in the boutique again, alone as always, yet properly behind the counter with his back straight, even if nobody can see him. ‘You’re part of the presentation,’ his boss had said, ‘if you slouch, it impacts the entire store.’ Hyungwon can’t say he understands fully, but he knows a thing or two about image, so he keeps quiet.

When Wonho pushes open the door, the only sound in the absence of a bell is the scrape of wood against stone. He’s ditched the fanny pack this time, thank God, in favour of a heavier rectangular bag and a camera slung around his neck, dangling down in front of his chest. He  _ still _ looks like a tourist, even in his semi-expensive looking blue shirt, cut just so to frame his arms exceptionally well.

“Hi,” says Wonho, grinning broadly at him. “Fancy seeing you again.”

“Apparently. Lost again?”

“Nah.” Wonho holds up his camera, shakes it gently. “Just on the hunt for a good picture. The side alleys are really good for that. There’s so much old architecture here, it’s really interesting!” He beams, and looking closer his cheeks are a little flushed and his hair a little windswept, like he’s spent his day chasing clouds to get on film.

For someone he’s only met twice, he really is unfairly attractive, isn’t he?

“This place here is about three-hundred years old,” Hyungwon offers. “The sign outside is reconstructed from the original. Probably still five percent of the same material left, optimistically, but hey.”

“It’s pretty. Can I go take a picture of it? I didn’t want to presume…”

“It’s fine.” Hyungwon waves his hand dismissively. “Take pictures of anything you want, just let me know if you want to sell them, I guess.”

“Alright, thank you.” The grin on Wonho’s lips has mellowed into a warm smile. There’s a flash of mischief on his face before he brings the viewfinder to his eye and quickly snaps a picture of Hyungwon’s taken aback face. “I’ll let you know if I want to sell that,” he quips, and out he goes through the front door before Hyungwon can tell him he does plenty of selling his pictures on a professional level. Instead he watches Wonho focus on the shop sign outside, weathered wood painted in a pastel spring green and sporting a five-petaled white flower in the middle of it swinging softly in the breeze. At some point he peers through one of the small show windows and waves.

Hyungwon does not wave back. He does, though, shake his hair in front of his face and blush just a little bit, as you do when you’re gay and confused about your place in the world.

 

“Psst, Hyungwon.”

Hyungwon groans and presses his forehead as far in his arms as possible. “Whhhhh.”

“Dude, did you sleep here all night again?”

Someone’s shaking him by the shoulder. It’s annoying, distracting, and Hyungwon would rather they didn’t do that so he could focus on going back to sleep instead. But they seem insistent, and at some point Hyungwon is annoyed enough to raise his head and blink blearily at the - sunlight?

Oh. Sunlight.

“Hhhh. Wh. What time is it,” he mumbles mostly to himself as he squints at the windows the offending brightness streams through. There’s a lot of them, courtesy of the Gothic-inspired intricate ironwork that the entire building is made of, leaving more than enough room for high, arched windows and the sheer gossamer drapes Celine had put up a year ago that do nothing to dampen or obscure anything.

Then again, a lot of the fashion department has always been form over function.

“Like… ten? I just got in to do some touch-ups on my runway stuff. Are you alright though? You look rough.”

Hyungwon huffs, but does manage to expend the energy to look at whoever’s talking to him instead of piercing his eyes and brain with this much input this early in the morning. Hyunwoo’s standing there, an arm still outstretched and grasping Hyungwon’s shoulder, the other holding some kind of coffee cup. He looks… unfairly awake and well put-together, all things considered.

Oh.

Hold on.

“‘M I at school right now?”

Hyunwoo gapes a little.

“Right, I forgot how bad you were in the mornings. Uh.” He looks down at his cup, sloshes it around a bit. “You want the rest of this? It’s probably warmed up a little on the way here, but it should still be okay?”

Would Hyungwon really take other peoples’ leftovers just to feel marginally more alive in the mornings? (What a joke. He really would and he already really has.) Things like morality and the concept of letting Hyunwoo finish what he rightfully paid for are way too advanced for Hyungwon’s morning brain, so he just makes grabby hands until the coffee is handed to him and then washes it down. Doesn’t even bother to grimace at the bitter Americano taste.

“So, what are you doing here?” Hyunwoo tries again as Hyungwon’s eyes clear a little from their cloudy haze.

“Uhhh.” Hyungwon looks around, trying to probe his brain for any reason he was asleep drooling over a solid iron table instead of his down-feather pillows, when his eye catches some blue form-fitted to the recreation of a male torso.

“That,” he says very intelligently and flings out an arm in the general direction of the thing. He knocks against it, even, and does nothing but stare vacantly as it topples and Hyunwoo rushes over to right it up before the fabric catches on anything, then stops to scrutinise the thing he’s holding for the first time.

“That… wasn’t here when I left yesterday,” he starts cautiously.

“Mhm.”

“Is this part of the runway collection?”

“Mhhhhm.” Is it? It probably is. He’s better off just agreeing for now.

“I thought you said you wanted to work with all greens this year. This isn’t very green.”

Hyungwon shrugs. “Decided I liked blue more.” It’s not a lie, not really. Green is nice, but sometimes you just need to follow the colours of your hea… no. Wait. Too cheesy. Not this early.

“Right,” Hyunwoo nods, seemingly letting it go without complaint, even though the gaze he directs at Hyungwon is rather more piercing than he’d like. “Anyway, shouldn’t you be at work soon?”

Oh. Work. That. Right.

“Think I might call in sick?”

A sigh. “Fine, I’ll drive you home, c’mon. Up with you.”

Hyungwon lets himself be led, and absolutely does not think of any more blue things.

Turns out that even in summer, sleeping in a threadbare T-shirt with the windows wide open all night is mostly a recipe for disaster. The disaster, in this case, comes in form of excruciating pain in his ears, bleeding down to his jaw, that almost makes him cry when he wakes up to it. Not even his pillows can shield him from this.

“You caught yourself an inner ear infection,” his middle-aged doctor informs him when she’s done poking a wide array of weird instruments into his ears. “You should probably rest for a few days, and take your prescriptions, young man.” She’s treated him often enough that she knows he tends to… forget, sometimes. Or much of the time. At least he’s trying?

In this case, though, he really doesn’t want to leave anything up to fate, so he goes to the pharmacy, scrawls a note to himself on his forearm on when to take what, and even trudges on over to a convenience store for some juice and some chicken soup. Not that chicken soup helps against ear pains, but… it makes him feel like he’s doing something to actively combat his disease. So it’s worth it.

He’s weighing two cans of soup in his hands, wondering if to go for the version with or without carrots, when someone taps on his shoulder. Hyungwon does his best to not flinch and instead turns around, cans gathered to his chest.

“Yeah?” Oh. It’s Wonho, clad in soft-looking sweatpants and a muscle shirt, grocery basket tucket against his side, and Hyungwon really wants to just lean forward and curl up against him to sleep a little. Which is so weird, considering this is only their third meeting and they barely know anything about each other. Wonho could be an axe murderer, or worse, he could be straight, but he just looks so comfortable and so…

...Worried?

“Hyungwon? Are you alright?”

Hyungwon manages to shrug a little. “Sick. ‘m here to pick up some soup and go bury myself in my bed forever.”

Wonho’s gaze slips down to the cans Hyungwon is still protectively cradling in his arms. “Your comfort food is Campbell’s?”

Hyungwon sniffs indignantly. “It’s good soup, you know.”

“Uh-uh.”

“And… I might not be the best cook.”

“Right.”

“Okay, I put sugar in instant ramen once, fine. I’m a terrible cook. Reheating things is safer.” At this point, Wonho is doing his best to stifle a laugh, rubbing a hand over his grin and looking away. It’s nice he’s trying to spare Hyungwon’s dignity, but he went to the store in his pajamas and wilder hair than Goku. There is no dignity. None.

“Here, come on, let’s go pick out some ingredients.”

“You cook?”

Wonho shrugs. “Not really,” he admits, “but I can’t possibly be as bad as you, so I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

 

Hyungwon lets himself be half led, half carried back to the dorms, practically draping himself over Wonho’s side. Wonho doesn’t seem all too bothered about that, simply hefting the grocery bag higher with his free arm and dragging him along. The muscles really aren’t just for show, then. (Not that Hyungwon’s wondered about that or anything.)

He vaguely remembers being deposited on a bed after he spent minutes trying to fumble his shoes off his feet, covers tucked securely around him despite his protests of ‘dude, it’s way too warm out, i’ll boil to death’, and then there’s silence for a while as Wonho goes to… unpack the groceries, presumably.

His pillow smells nice.

Now’s entirely not the time to be gay and useless, Hyungwon tells himself firmly, and instead sits up a little to look at his surroundings. He’s not in his own room, so he must be in Wonho’s, he supposes. It’s nice: dorm-standard white walls, but decorated with a bunch of pictures framed and hung up everywhere. Hyungwon wonders if these are Wonho’s photography - if they are, he’s got a good sense for colours and framing. There’s no people in any of these, save for the reflection of some shadowy figure in one of the windows. He’s probably a still-life guy, then.

He’s so lost in examining the art around him that he really doesn’t register the bustling in the kitchen quieten down after some time, and then the shuffling of someone coming down the hall, until Wonho arrives in the doorway carrying a tray. “Here you go,” he says, and passes the tray for Hyungwon to balance on his legs. There’s a computer chair that’s sitting unoccupied in a corner that Wonho takes to sit.

Hyungwon himself pokes at his food a little. It’s chicken soup, a mug of tea and some bread, and taking the first bite… it’s not awful, but it’s not exactly great either. A little bland, but probably better than the shit he usually eats, so there’s no point in complaining. Instead, he quietly starts on the food as Wonho fiddles around with his computer.

“How’d you get sick, anyway? It’s so warm out.”

“Slept with the windows open, tragically.”

“Ah.”

They fall silent again.

This is just… awkward. And weird, Hyungwon decides as he listens to the sound of his spoon clicking against the sides of his bowl.

“I, uh.” Wonho clears his throat. “I’m sorry I dragged you to mine. It’s probably a little weird, I just. You looked like you were about to collapse.” He gives this helpless little half-shrug that manages to look small and timid even despite the bulk of muscle. It’s cute.

Hyungwon might be a little gay and useless after all.

“I mean. I was. I might have forgotten to eat.” The look Wonho shoots him is damn near scandalised, and Hyungwon can’t keep a straight face, grins in his face.

“Don’t worry, you’re feeding me now, so I’m all better.”

And he is, he decides as Wonho grins back. Good enough to flee back up to his apartment - luckily (or unluckily) just a five minute walk between dorm buildings.

 

“Tell me about him,” is the first thing out of Minhyuk’s mouth.

Hyungwon is extremely tempted to slam the door in Minhyuk’s irritatingly cheerful face.  _ Very  _ tempted. Instead he rolls his eyes and stands aside to let him in.

“I have no idea who you mean,” he tells him as he leads him to his living room slash bedroom, horribly cramped and draped from one corner to the other in fabrics and scraps and pins stuck everywhere. He’d wheeled two dressing forms back from the university workshop that he somehow fit in the middle of the room, one of them sporting the new blue suit he’d been working on and the other one of his softer silk shirt and cigar-cut pants looks.

“Those look great,” Minhyuk mutters, oohing and aahing over the looks. Hyungwon, internally, has to agree: he’s been outdoing himself lately, after his illness had passed. The suit he is especially proud of, a rich, glossy dark blue with black lapels and a black waistcoat underneath, silver buttons gleaming under the rickety dorm lights.

“Dude, I can’t wait to wear these.” When Minhyuk is done admiring, he immediately strips down. Hyungwon, for his part, has seen Minhyuk almost naked enough times already that he’s not fazed about it. Instead he gets his pin cushion and directs a critical eye at the fit of the silk shirt. “But seriously, tell me.”

“I told you, I don’t know what you mean.”

“Hyungwon.” Minhyuk pauses in dressing himself, realises he’s halfway in pulling his pants up and hops around as he tries to catch himself. “Won. You were sick. If you’d just cared for yourself all week, you’d be dead right now.”

“Funny from the guy who tried to eat ramen dry.”

“I forgot water  _ one _ time, God, stop discriminating against crunchy foods?” Hyungwon takes one good look at Minhyuk’s indignant pout and can’t hold his laughter anymore.

 

The clothes fit well. Perfectly, even. They’ve worked together long enough, a designer and his runway model, that fitting clothes is practically just a matter of routine. Minhyuk seems to like the suit even more once it’s on, and Hyungwon can’t help feeling quietly relieved about it all. It fits surprisingly well on Minhyuk’s slender frame - he might have to slim down the lapels a bit for a better ratio, something in his head operating on the assumption of a broad chest and muscled shoulder, but it’s not  _ bad  _ per se. Just a slightly different feeling.

“Honestly, though,” says Minhyuk, back in the ratty sweats came in with, from his cross-legged position on Hyungwon’s bed. (Hogging the space, what an asshole.) “I’m not going to force you to tell me anything. I just hope he treats you well, is all.” Even through his words, there’s still a plaintive whine speaking of dejectedness, and suddenly Hyungwon feels bad for withholding things from him. Minhyuk doesn’t like being left out, he knows this. He just… he can’t say anything yet. Just in case things go bad.

“We’re not dating,” he clarifies. “But if we ever are, I’ll let you know.” That’s the only concession he can make, for his own peace of mind more than anything.

Well, that, and an impromptu cuddle-napping session, but that’s less of a concession and more of a welcome distraction.

 

Even with his penchant for napping in his free time, he manages to get more and more tired as the exhibit draws closer. Because he decided to change his centerpiece virtually last-minute he needs to redo the entire collection, which means a lot of work and a lot of bribing Minhyuk with progressively intricate snacks.

As such, he gets sleep where he can get it. The Printemps du Lune, as it turns out, is very much a good place for it, even during tourist season.

He’d pulled a chair up to the stone registry counter and is snoozing, head pillowed on his arms, when the door swings open. There’s still no bell, so he doesn’t notice until something pokes at his cheek.

“Hrrg,” Hyungeon grumbles as he pushes himself up to blink at the customer with the literal worst timing he’s ever seen. Why is he getting woken up so often these days? Life truly is ugly. “What.”

Wonho beams at him. Oh. Alright then. Hyungwon clears his throat and leans back in his chair, far enough that he won’t spontaneously combust.

“You’re looking less sick,” Wonho comments, “but kinda tired. Lot of work?”

Hyungwon sighs. “I’m finishing a capsule collection for in… two weeks? And I have to redo everything. I hate my life. You should have left me for dead in the grocery store.”

“Then who would I listen to whine about his work?” And with that, Wonho hoists himself up onto the counter, barely avoiding hitting the old brass-optic cash register with his thigh. “Do you have pictures of your designs?”

Hyungwon thinks of his message history with Minhyuk and his fresh notebook filled with sketches and colour swatches and shakes his head. “Besides,” he says, “clothes always look better on the runway anyway.”

Wonho huffs a laugh. “Is that your way of inviting me?”

“Maybe?”

“Well, I suppose I can’t really turn you down, now can I?” Wonho sighs. “Whatever shall I do… do you have a pen?”

Hyungwon hands him one and Wonho proceeds to scrawl a string of numbers in red across Hyungwon’s forearm. “Text me the venue later. I gotta go before the light out goes all shitty.”

He’s halfway to the door when Hyungwon finally tears his eyes from the curve of a 6. “You could’ve just put the number in my phone,” he calls after him.

“Had to pay you back for ruining my map, buddy,” says Wonho, a teasing lilt to his voice, and then the door falls closed behind him.

Hyungwon sighs and slumps back down, his forehead hitting the polished marble surface of the countertop. He hates this guy so much.

  
  


**To: man who ruined my arm**

>Campus auditorium, August 3rd. 8PM.

>You can bring a friend if you want, there’s free cheese snacks.

 

**To: possibly an angel???**

>Cool! I’ll be there.

>I’ll bring one of my fashion friend so I’ll understand anything at all. Will you be watching from the audience?

 

**To: man who ruined my arm**

>The first row is reserved for the designers and press. I can get you and your friend front row seats though if you want to take pictures at all?

 

**To: possibly an angel???**

>I’d like that. :)

  
  


The more work you have to do before a deadline, the faster said deadline approaches. Hyungwon has experienced this a lot of times before, yet it never fails to take him off guard regardless - he ends up working all night the day before the event, putting the finishing touches on his cornflower-motif embroidered shirt.

He’s noticed that this set has been straying a lot towards the kinds of fashion he sells at du Lune, classical fabrics and cuts that he’d struggled to put his own twist on. Just a few months ago, he’d sneered at the mere thought of doing anything but streetwear, had some plans for plastic cutouts and wearable artpieces too unwieldy to ever leave the runway, but this? This is what his boss would call a “respectable, wearable” collection. (Except he’d lament the modern embellishments, but Hyungwon absolutely refuses to make grandpa clothes. Ever. If he sells one more jacket with elbow patches he’s actually going to cry in real life.

So, yeah. He understands Minhyuk’s surprise during the fittings, accepts Hyunwoo’s quietly searching gaze as he works. When pressed, he answers that he wanted to try something new. And it’s not wrong, in retrospect; it’s just that he never made that conscious decision.

 

Whichever Hyungwon decided to hand-embroider an entire shirt was a fucking idiot, though.

 

He does finish, at least, when the sun has been up for a few hours already, and declares his triumph to the fashion students group chat before promptly passing out on top of a bolt of wool fabric.

Hyungwon sleeps for a few precious hours before Hyunwoo and his friend Jinyoung show up to help him transport all this work back to campus. By the end if it all he’s tired, his arms hurt, his eyes are dry and he has about an hour to breathe before Minhyuk shows up for his final fitting.

He loves all of this.

He just hopes the results of his work reflect that.

 

The auditorium has been done up nicely, as is usual for the shows. The runway sticks out in the middle, empty and still, a generous amount of chairs surrounding it in the remaining space. It’s big for a university event. The local press tends to like these affairs, as do fashion bloggers, and they usually pay a bit to get seats at the front to be able to get the full coverage. Some of Hyungwon’s friends keep chattering about that, wondering if their designs will be picked up by anyone or if they can secure a foot in the elusive high fashion industry. Hyungwon himself just tends to do what he wants and let them worry about that. If people are interested in his design, they’ll approach him. If not, he can probably make it just as well on his own.

Backstage is like an entirely different world. Models are lounging about and designers are running around frantically, doing last minute fits and instructions on how to walk in which outfit. Minhyuk’s sitting on a table, feet pulled up, fiddling with his phone, a lot more relaxed than anyone else. To his left, Hyunwoo is telling his model to turn so he can inspect the dress from all sides.

“Do you want to run through the program again?” Hyungwon asks without preamble, leaning against the table next to him. Minhyuk glances up at him and shrugs, engrossed by whatever game is running on his screen right now.

“You obsessed over it a lot, I can probably do it in my sleep. I think I can tell the others what to do, unless you want to find them and run it over with them a few times?”

They might as well, right? ...Just to be safe.

 

When Hyungwon makes his way back to the main show floor, there are already a few guests milling around, champagne glasses in hand. Everyone’s dressed well - Hyungwon halts for a second as he remembers he’s still wearing his university sweater and glue-stained pants. It’ll have to do, though. They’ll probably forgive him for being such a mess considering all the work he’d put in.

(Hyunwoo dressed in a three-piece suit for this, but he doesn’t have to think about that now.)

He goes to get himself some champagne and one of those cheese-and-grape mini skewers, then promptly plants himself on the seat that has his name on a piece of paper stuck to the back of it. The seats around him are only sparsely filled, right now.

Someone clears his throat next to him. Hyungwon shakes his head as he realises he’d been in some kind of trance, his glass resting on his lap more than he’d been holding it.

“Hey,” the person says, and at this point Hyungwon doesn’t have to look to recognise that lisp.

“Wonho,” he says, turning to examine him briefly. “Good to see you.”

It is good to see him, frankly. He looks  _ good _ , not quite as dressed to the nines as Hyunwoo, but he’s wearing this nicely-fitting suit and a bowtie that somehow makes his ears stick out even more. His hair looks… soft, Hyungwon realises, and then decides he’s been staring at him for way too long to be entirely socially acceptable. “Did you bring your companion?” he asks instead.

Wonho nods and gestures to a man behind him. He introduces himself as Changkyun, a fashion photographer, as is evident by his press pass and large camera bag. Wonho, on his part, is carrying slightly less equipment that still manages to look so grossly expensive that Hyungwon is mildly afraid to even breathe on it.

When they’re both seated, and the hall begins to fill up slowly, Wonho leans over to Hyungwon. “Are you looking forward to the show?”

Hyungwon, to his credit, manages to coax the tiniest amount of a smile out of his grimace. “Yeah,” he says, and he’s technically not lying. “Just a bit nervous.”

“I’m sure you did amazing,” Wonho tells him with an amount of sincerity that Hyungwon is legitimately unused to hearing. Under the stage lights Wonho’s eyes shine and Hyungwon can’t find the heart to protest.

Not today, at least. Today he will enjoy himself.

 

The actual show feels like it’s over in a blur. There’s an endless line of models coming out from behind the stage partition and disappearing back behind it, wearing streetwear and tulle dresses and deconstructed fruit baskets as headwear. All around him Hyungwon can see the flash of cameras, the clicking of shutters, and all he can do is twist his fingers as he waits for his own pieces.

It’s Minhyuk who starts off his part of the show, striding out in the silk shirt and high-waisted pants. He looks good under the soft lights, the material moving well as he walks. Next to him, Wonho brings his camera up. Minhyuk’s gone almost in a flash and then there’s the other models , making the rounds one after another until Minhyuk is back, changed into the suit, the centerpiece of the collection. Hyungwon can hear a few oohs and soft muttering among the crowd. It makes him queasy, yet happy - the fact that his work might have left an impression on someone when they leave tonight.

Wonho bumps him softly with his elbow once the models have made their tour and the music changes for Hyunwoo’s fairytale concept to unfold before them. “You did well,” Wonho mouths at him.

Hyungwon’s starting to believe that himself, actually.

 

“Come on,” Wonho says after the show. Hyungwon has things to do, people to talk to, models to thank, but instead he lets Wonho grab him by the elbow and lead him outside through a side entrance.

It’s still warm out, some traces of the orange sunset washed out against the dark blue of the sky. Moths buzz lazily around the street lamp over their heads. From here, the muttering of the crowd inside is near nonexistent.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Wonho tells him. “It was good. I enjoyed myself.”

Hyungwon nods. Wonho clears his throat and looks off to the side.

“But I was wondering…”

Looking closely, Hyungwon can actually make out little splotches of red high on Wonho’s cheeks. He’s flustered, rubbing the back of his neck as he looks for words, and it’s incredibly endearing.

Also, it’s something Hyungwon had been wanting to do. So instead of letting Wonho finish, he gently takes his other hand and leans down to rest his forehead against Wonho’s.

“Funny,  _ I  _ was wondering something too. Can I take you out for dinner sometime?”

Wonho laughs. “Stealing my lines?”

“I could say something about stealing, but that would be incredibly cheesy.”

“Good thing I’m not worried about that, then.” There’s a slight delay, then Wonho’s fingers are intertwined with Hyungwon’s, palm resting against palm. “Be as cheesy as you want.”

 

Hyungwon ponders that for just about a second.

“I have to save some things for dinner, don’t I?” 


End file.
